Blue Night
by kaname's harisen
Summary: Even when that damn girl's gone, she's still in his head, taking up residence and crowding out the dark.


**Written for Bethyl Week 2014 on tumblr. **

This story takes place after Beth's disappearance, so there will be **_two_ **different timelines at work in this piece. Daryl's timeline picks up directly after the season 4 finale, while Beth's starts roughly twenty-four hours after the events of _Alone_, and then they slowly converge. For the purposes of this story, the time lapse between _Alone_ and _A_ is about two weeks.

Thank you to _**sheriffgreene** _for organizing this wonderful community activity! Also, a special thank you to _**drama's tokijin**_ for being a last minute alpha reader! I have fiddled with this since last she saw it, so any remaining mistakes are mine alone.

**Warnings: **Language, References to cannibalism

**Disclaimer: **The Walking Dead does not belong to me. I am merely playing in the sandbox someone else has created. Please forgive me my child's play. Also, the title of the story comes from the song, _Twice_, by Little Dragon, which I do not own either.

(And if you have time, you should check out _**Jerika Feaser's** Bethyl-Twice_ video on youtube. It's fabulous!)

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**. ~ { Secret } ~ .**

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"Alright," Rick whispers, voice rough like gravel. "What do we know? Their numbers, weapons, agenda… anything. Never know what might be helpful."

The group is gathered in the center of the train car, a crowd of determined faces. Some are sitting, some are kneeling, but all are determinedly avoiding the perimeter. Outside, the November day is cool, but the bright sun beats strong against the thick metal walls, making them uncomfortably warm to the touch. Being in such close proximity to each other is stifling, the air heavy with the sweat and grime of eleven adults and a teenager, yet no one moves away. Daryl knows – just like they all do – that the tight huddle is all the better for keeping any plans they make a secret from their captors.

Besides, the situation was familiar enough for most of them. They'd been nearly living on top of one another during the early days at the prison and had been crammed into tiny, economical cars loaded down with far too many people on many an occasion. It's a lesson the survivors have learned well, how a person can't afford the luxury of things like modesty or personal space in the apocalypse, and he's probably learned it better than most.

Still, Daryl hovers apart in the back, the lone person standing in spite of his fatigue.

"Not much." Glenn rubs a hand over his face, through his hair. "We got here two days ago, came through the main entrance. The gate was unlocked and whole place was quiet. No walkers, no people. It was weird–"

"Should've known better," – Sasha shakes her head and her hands ball up into tight fists – "Nowadays, people don't just let others in like that. I knew something was wrong." Bob slips one of his hands over hers, gently coaxing it open before lacing their fingers together. "Should've listen to my gut."

"Wouldn't have made a difference," Michonne says. "We snuck in the back way. Still ended up here."

"She's right. We can't go blaming ourselves. We ain't got time for it and we ain't to blame." Rick looks them each in eye, points towards the sealed door. "This is on _them_."

"This kumbaya shit is all well and good, but do you think we could get back to the debriefing now?"

All heads to turn to look at Abraham with a mixed bag of expressions, running the gamut from incredulous to outright annoyance. Rosita nudges him in the side with her elbow none too gently, her lips turned down in marked disapproval. He merely shifts the set of his shoulders, a barely-there, non-repentant shrug, and the woman rolls her eyes. "Dumbass," she mutters.

"We were greeted by a woman." Maggie plows ahead, cutting through the egos and hurt feelings and all that bullshit, and takes up where Glenn left off. Her face is grim, all hard lines and resolve, but her eyes are bright and open. The contrast gnaws at Daryl, makes him want to punch something.

_It reminds him of Beth._

But he doesn't have time for those kind of thoughts, not when he's trapped like a rabbit in a snare. He's got to get the hell out of here first, get his people out of harm's way, and it'll take every bit of cunning and cleverness he possesses. Can't be wasting his energy on the guilt – _anger, self-reproach, loneliness, heartbreak_ – which he's been working so hard to bury. Experience tells him that it'll all still be there later anyway, lying in wait for him, ready to pounce as soon as this is over. Better to concentrate his efforts on something that he can actually escape.

_And he knows he shouldn't be letting his mind dwell on that slip of a girl anyhow._

He shifts his stance, using the movement to clear his mind, and turns his focus back to the matter at hand.

"Mary was friendly, all smiles and Southern hospitality, just cooking something on a grill." Maggie laughs, but it is a mirthless sound. "She offered us a plate of food, but it didn't feel right–"

"It smelled like crap anyway," Tara adds, nose wrinkled in disgust. "Looked even worse."

"–was by herself, no weapon in sight. But when she asked us give up our weapons, she was so damn confident. We refused–"

"Actually, Abraham is the one who…" Tara interrupts again, but the large man crosses his arms and her voice trails off into a low murmur. "Refused."

"–and that's when we saw them. The snipers. They crawled out of every nook and cranny. Just surrounded us." Maggie looks down at her dirty palms and flexes her fingers open and shut, open and shut. "We didn't have a choice."

"You did the right thing." Rick takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "What about since? They just lock you up and leave you to rot?"

"No, and that's what's got me confused." Glenn leans forward, his words garnering the attention of the group. "I don't know how much of the complex you got to see before they brought you here. They've got this room, lit up with candles and writing all over the walls. It's like something out of–"

"A damn horror movie? Yeah man, we saw it," Daryl finishes. He runs a knuckle across his forehead, his gaze shifting momentarily to his feet. Then he raises his head and looks at Rick. "Got a pile of freshly stripped corpses out there, too."

"I saw it and I'll be honest, it's not sitting too well. I've tried, but I can't think of any good reasons for it."

Carl frowns, his gaze dark. "You think they're cannibals?"

The train car goes silent, a pregnant pause. Each face around the circle goes pale and many hands rise to cover many mouths – some to hold back the shock, some in a vain effort to calm their churning stomachs.

Daryl's not surprised. People had been consuming human flesh before the world went all to hell. Of course, it'd been rare then, mostly warped bastards like Dahmer or twisted religious cults. But things were different now. Food was scarce and even normal people had become desperate enough, willing to do whatever it took to survive. Hell, he's more surprised that this is the first time they've run into a group willing to go to these lengths.

Rick takes a deep breath. "Glenn, what do you think?"

"I don't know. Maybe?" The younger man hangs his head. "It just feels like we're missing something. They take us out once a day, one person at a time, to go to the bathroom. Then they give us a bowl of reconstituted milk and shove us back in. It'll be enough to keep us alive for a while, but we'll gradually get weaker and weaker. If they wanted us for food, why would they wait? Why would they let us waste away? With cattle, you want an animal to be as fat and healthy as possible when you butcher it, right?"

"They're not gonna eat us," Eugene declares. "I haven't figured out their endgame yet, still too many unknown variables. But they're _not_ gonna eat us. That I can guarantee."

"I hope you're right. For now," – Rick looks around the circle again – "we keep our eyes and ears open. When it's your turn outside, pay attention to everything and report it back to the group. We're going to take advantage of their _hospitality_."

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**. ~ { Red } ~ .**

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Beth wakes up slowly. Her mind is fragmented, disjointed, like a nearly complete jigsaw puzzle that has been flung to the floor. Piece by small, odd piece, she gathers them, her memories, and struggles to find a frame of reference so that she can put them together in the proper configuration.

_Burning lungs and legs, a desperate escape._

_Maggie's bright smile._

_Her mamma's best Sunday go-to-meeting hat._

_Piercing gunshots, a shrill scream, and the glint of cool, hardened steel._

_Soft, wiggling weight in her arms as she sings little Judith to sleep._

_Terrible, biting teeth and a sharp stab of her survival knife._

_A dog and a song and the accelerated rhythm of her own heart._

_Tight squeeze through a window and more running, running, running._

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_.__  
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_Daryl._

Her eyes open and her breathing stills as it all suddenly snaps back into place. Her daddy. The fall of the prison. The uncertain time spent on the road. Peach Schnapps, moonshine, and a handful of nearly-idyllic days at a little white funeral parlor. Being separated from Daryl when the walkers descended upon them. A flash of headlights… and then nothing.

Beth swallows down her panic. She's alive, so there's no sense in kicking up a fuss and raising the alarm, at least not until she knows the particulars of her current situation. Her body hurts – a dull pain that seems to permeate muscle and bone alike, originating from her right side – but she does her best to ignore it and begins to take stock of her surroundings.

She's alone, tucked neatly into a bed made up with the softest, cleanest sheets she's touched since the farmhouse. They were probably some kind of red at one time – a deep burgundy or wine color, maybe – but they are now an awkward pink, faded from too many washings. Rolling over first onto her better side, Beth gingerly sits up. The room spins for a few brief seconds, but then her body reclaims its equilibrium and everything tilts back into its proper place. Not that it matters overly much. There's little else to be seen, just a beat-up nightstand and a matching wooden chair.

It's time to look around outside, she decides. Get a better idea of what she's in for. Beth drops her feet over the edge of the bed with the intention of letting them hang there for a moment, but is startled when they make contact with something. With a start, she moves them back quickly and leans over to peer under the bed, readying herself for a threat. When she sees what's down there, she lets out soft, relieved sort of chuckle.

_Just my boots, thank goodness._

She hadn't even realized they weren't on her feet. With a faint smile, she pulls them on, wiggling her toes into well-worn leather. They've been with her for a long time now and Beth knows she would sorely miss them if they were gone, not just for survival reasons. They are the last little bit of home she has left.

One last check of her person – she's also got a fresh bandage on her left bicep, but her knife is still on her hip and she doesn't seem to have been otherwise... _tampered_ with – and Beth stands up. Her legs are steadier than she had expected they would be, especially given the way sitting up had affected her head. But she takes it slow anyway, walking a lazy path around the bed. Once she's sure her muscles aren't going to give out, she rummages through the pitiful excuse for a closet and the single drawer of the nightstand, finding a mostly-used bottle of ibuprofen for her troubles.

_If I only had some water_, she thinks wryly, _those last two pills would be real nice right about now._

Rolling her neck, Beth tries to release the tension that has settled between her shoulder blades. When the muscles there are as relaxed as she can expect, she begins to stretch the rest of her body, prepping herself as best she can for whatever might be beyond the relative safety of the room. But then she hears it, the low rumble of a male voice humming out an old country tune. Her face lights up and Beth forgets caution, bursting through the door.

"You're up," the man says. His hands are busy with a paring knife, peeling and slicing an apple, then dropping the pieces into a bowl. "How're you feeling? You got hit pretty good."

Beth doesn't say anything in reply, just retreats a half-step backwards. Her fingers slide over her hip, hovering over the sheath of her knife. He looks up from his task, takes in her countenance, and gives her an understanding smile.

"It's okay, miss. You won't be needing that. It's just me and Nate here," – his head gestures to the next room – "and we ain't aiming to hurt nobody."

To her right, Beth hears a deep sigh and the muted stomp of heavy footfalls. A second or two later, another man, tall and muscled, rounds the corner and stops in the open archway in the opposite side of the room. He catches sight of her and his eyes narrow sharply. "What's going on here? There something you need me to take care of, Father?"

Beth quickly grabs her weapon, knuckles white around the handle as she holds the blade steady in front of her. Then she squares her shoulders. Adrenaline is thrumming through her, feeding the fight-or-flight reflex, but she stands her ground and holds tight to the protective anger rising in her chest. It makes her bold, and with grit teeth, Beth bites out the only question she cares to have an answer to at the moment.

"Where the hell is Daryl?"

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**. ~ { Numb } ~ .**

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Daryl watches the sun's descent through one of the gaps in the metal. The colors of the sunset are muted and lack the intensity that they display during the summer months, favoring subtle pastels instead of fiery jewel tones. It's like the sky has been brushed over with a thin wash of gray, painted bleak and miserable. The view is so uninspiring that he wonders why he even bothers. Then he looks around in the semi-darkness inside, catching a glimpse of bright eyes in a face that is much too similar to _hers_ for his current liking, and remembers what it is that he is trying to avoid.

In taking up a position in one of the corners of the train car, Daryl has purposely put distance between himself and the others. While everyone else is still tightly crammed into the middle, he's the first to brave contact with the hard steel, settling in and using it as a back rest. But that small gamble is worth it. The material is still warm, though not nearly enough to burn, and the residual heat seeps through his skin, soaking deep into tired muscles and weary bones. It's been a long ass day. Hell, it's been a long ass couple of weeks, and he's hardly slept at all.

_Not since he was separated from Beth._

His head lolls backwards, supported by the juncture where the two walls connect, and he closes his eyes without a second thought. Glenn's taking first watch and Daryl trusts him. The younger man's proven himself, earned Daryl's respect many times over. Not that there's a whole lot to watch for right now. They might be prisoners, but their current location is likely to protect them from most immediate dangers, except for their captors. He can afford to get a bit of shut-eye.

The sky grows dark, a great bluish-black expanse, and Daryl finally begins to nod off. It's not a deep or proper sleep that he falls into. He wouldn't know what that felt like anyway. Even before, back when the laws of nature still held true, he'd had to keep a certain awareness at all times or deal with the consequences, none of which were ever good. So Daryl takes in the low whispers of conversation around him and recognizes the exact moment when the wall at his back loses the last of its heat, among a multitude of other mundane details, and pushes all those things to the back of his mind. If it's not a threat, if it doesn't require his immediate attention, it gets relegated to white noise.

When Daryl's been asleep for a while – long enough for his shoulders to stiffen and for his hands to become heavy and numb – he hears her sit down beside him. It's not the shuffling of her feet or the rustle of clothing as her back slides down the metal behind them that gets his attention; those sounds have been echoing through the train car all evening as people have settled in for the night. No, instead what disturbs his rest is the sigh, barely more than a soft exhale, which she releases just before she speaks.

"Daryl, you awake?"

"Am now." He opens his eyes a crack. "What ya want, Greene?"

The question is unnecessary. Daryl knows exactly what she's after. But he sure as hell isn't going to make it easy on her, not for either of their sakes. He's not a sharing kind of man, doesn't like to talk about the things he has squirreled away. Doesn't like to talk much, period. A person's got to work to get something out of him. And Maggie Greene's got some learning to do, some penance to pay, so he's going to make her work.

"I was talking to Rick," she starts, determination in the timbre of her voice. "He said you got out with Beth?"

"Hmm," he grunts, neither confirmation nor denial, and picks at a loose string on his frayed pants.

"She's not here." He mumbles another non-answer in response to her prodding, and she shifts her body to face him. A weak stripe of moonlight is cast over her face, her change of position putting her directly into its path. Maggie's expression, what little he can see of it, is now stubborn and angry, all pointed chin and dagger eyes. "She's _my_ sister. I deserve to–"

"You don't deserve shit," he says. There's no malice in the statement, just fact. After a long minute for her mull over the truth of his words, Daryl continues. "I saw the signs."

Her breath hitches and then he can hear it rasp against her grit teeth as it escapes, a harsh, desperate sound. Eyes wide, she asks, "Did _she_ see them?"

Daryl leaves her fidgeting in her guilt for a moment before he shakes his head. "Nah. Least not last I saw her."

"I just– I knew Glenn was alive, you know? Sounds stupid, but I could feel it," – Maggie pounds a fist lightly into her chest – "here. But Beth… She's not exactly–"

"Strong? Is that what you think?" Daryl bites out his accusation, quiet anger written in the taut lines of his mouth. He leans towards the girl, a hard glare invading her personal space. "That she's weak?"

"No." She lowers her head and begins to rub the pad of her thumb over the rough edges of her short fingernails. Her voice is small, gone soft and still. "No. She's strong. Probably stronger than anyone else I know. But it's a different kind of strength.

"Before the prison fell, before the sickness and the Governor and Daddy… Beth hadn't been out there, you know? _Really_ out there. We sheltered her too much, coddled her. It was wrong. I can see that now. And I just– The way we treated her gave me doubts. Because we hadn't prepared her, not at all." She looks right back at Daryl, her eyes glossy and bottom lip trembling. "In this world, even the strong die. It takes more than just strength to survive."

Then Maggie stands, brushes off the back of her pants, and takes a step towards where Glenn is now sleeping, someone else having taken up his guard post. Her shoulders are hunched, grief resting heavy across her thin back, and something about the sight makes his resolve waver. Beth would hate to see her sister like that, so defeated, and he doesn't want to be the one responsible it. He's done lots of things since losing Beth. Things that he knows she wouldn't like, wouldn't commend. But to do one of those things to the girl's own kin? The thought rankles deep in his belly.

"Greene."

She half-turns towards him, shifting back into the light. "Yeah?"

"We got separated, maybe two weeks ago." Daryl pauses, gesturing to the spot she just vacated. Maggie blinks and then her brows furrow, but she doesn't move. Maybe she can't see him properly where he sits in the darkness, or maybe she's just not sure what he wants from her. Either way, he knows that he can't just leave her like that. "Well, come on, girl. I ain't got all night."

"You're really gonna tell me?" she asks with a hopeful drawl. "About my sister?"

"Yeah, I'm really gonna tell you about your sister. If you ever sit your scrawny ass down and shut up."

Then Daryl recalls their days on the road, and the dark gradually gives way to the first light of dawn. He hadn't planned on saying much – just wanted to give her the basics of what'd happened – and though the man hasn't said even a fraction of what he could've, he's said more than enough. More than he thought he'd ever say about anyone. Still, even with his unusual bout of verbosity, Maggie does most of the talking, telling stories about stubborn, headstrong Beth and better days that are long gone. It's a small moment of peace in a cruel, unrelenting world.

And for the first time since Beth disappeared, Daryl lets his emotions rise to the surface instead of shoving them down. It's not quite happiness, this thing that he feels, because the situation certainly doesn't warrant it.

But it's something close.

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**. ~ { Enchanted } ~ .**

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Daryl tries to sleep during the small hours of the early morning, before the sun fully rises to heat their metal cage. He knows that once that happens, it'll be too miserable to get any kind of significant rest. But instead of letting him have the deep, restful slumber he needs, his mind refuses to shut down like it should. In the space behind his closed eyelids, he hears the sound of a song playing in the background – a sweet, piano driven tune with lilting vocals – and it continues on and on and _on_, in an endless loop. Flashes of bright blue, soft pink, and pale blonde are woven throughout, adding to atmosphere of the melody.

His thoughts have been centered on her much too often lately. Her pretty smile or the way she gets all fired up when she thinks something is wrong. How she can still see so much good in this shithole of a world. That she seems to think he's one of those 'good' things. He ain't never had someone get under his skin the way Beth has. She's got him all off-kilter and he sure as hell don't know what to do about it. It's like that damn girl has enchanted him or something.

It makes him almost thankful when his futile attempt at sleep is disturbed.

The Termites, as the group has taken to calling their jailors, begin their routine first thing in the morning. A pair of armed guards knock twice on the door, call out a name, and fiercely remind everyone else to stay back under penalty of death. The warning is a pointless exercise; no one in their group is stupid enough to try anything, not in broad daylight with snipers watching their every move. Each person is gone maybe ten minutes, just time enough for the lures of sun and fresh air to sink in and take hold, to make being shoved back inside nearly unbearable. Then the group is left alone until the next shift of guards come round to call out another name.

This is how Daryl finds out that his group – Rick, Michonne, Carl, and himself – aren't the only ones that have been given code names. They all have one.

_The Leader, The Archer, The Samurai, and The Kid._

_Ginger and The Professor._

_The Three Stooges – Larry, Moe, and Curly._

_Mrs. Strong and Mr. Silent._

_The Smartass._

It's an intelligent, calculated move, stripping them of their real identities. The tactic keeps things impersonal, makes prisoners less than human in the eyes of those watching over them. Gareth… he's definitely one smooth, manipulative bastard.

It's about an hour before dusk by the time they call for Daryl, leaving him for very last. He's not sure what that says about what they think of him – whether he is considered more or less of a threat than the rest – and he doesn't really care. He's been overlooked, underestimated, and misunderstood all his life. He's used to turning those misconceptions around to his advantage. The time will come for action soon enough and when it does, that's when Daryl will care about what's going through their heads.

_Because then the only thing in their sick brains will be his arrows._

But for now, a piss and something for his complaining stomach is all he needs.

Daryl walks through the doorway and winces, what's left of the sunlight still too bright for his eyes. They are slow to adjust and it makes him antsy. It's another disadvantage to overcome. The guards frisk him while he squints, but they find nothing and give him the okay to move forward. The cold steel of a gun barrel digs into the middle of his back, a none-too-subtle threat ushering him in the direction they want him to go.

The bathroom turns out to be nothing more than an old port-a-potty, dank and smelly. One of the men escorting him smirks, wide and unpleasant, and then slowly counts out two measly squares of toilet paper. He dangles them in front of Daryl's nose and nods towards the facilities. Daryl ignores the offering, entering the foul box with a smirk of his own, and the pleased expression falls from the guard's face. With a chuckle, Daryl takes care of his business. He didn't need to take a shit anyway.

On the way back, Daryl surveys the complex as best he can, his sight finally adjusted to the outside environment. Like before, there are gunman everywhere, hiding in corners and spying from the rooftops. By his count, there are at least a dozen. And those are just the ones he can see. Even if that's all the numbers they have in and around the building, the count doesn't include anyone who might be out patrolling the near the fences or in the woods. They've dealt with worse numbers before, but not against a group so organized and well-armed. Rick's going to have to come up with a damn good plan if they all want to get out of here in one piece.

If he can't, Daryl's not above raising some hell and letting the distraction serve as cover for the others. He figures his one life for their eleven is a good exchange. There are worse ways to go.

The guards force him to halt a few paces from the train car. A woman is standing there, slightly-graying red hair and an artificial smile. She's got a bowl in one weathered hand and a red Dixie cup in the other.

"Thought you might like a little refreshment," she says. "Disagreement or no, a man needs some nourishment. The name's Mary, by the way."

He hesitates to accept, but the tip of a gun jabs into his spine painfully. "Drink up, son. Don't want to be offending this kind lady. Ya hear?"

Daryl gulps them down – warm milk in the bowl and water in the cup – in quick succession. Neither taste all that great, but if nothing else, they'll help to keep him hydrated. He hands the containers back and his eyes discreetly scan across the woods one last time. He can't see very far through the foliage or do much in the way of reconnaissance with so many people watching him, but just knowing that the wilderness is there is a comfort. The trees are more of a home than he's ever had.

The colors of the leaves have changed, all reds and oranges and yellows, but have yet to fall. Winter is still a few weeks off, so the view is one that he could enjoy for a while longer, if he was one for those kind of things. Or if he wasn't being held against his will. But he's not, not in that sense anyway. He cares more about how the seasons will affect his hunting than the surroundings being something pretty to look at. It's not like he's against anything being pleasant to look at, but a picturesque scene isn't going to fill his belly. Practicality comes first.

Movement to his left catches his eye. He tracks it in his peripheral vision, refusing to move his head for fear of gaining unwanted attention. The setting sun is at his back, sending the last of its rays down to illuminate the world. Patches of the light dance through the leaves and make it through the thick canopy to brighten up the ground underneath. His target moves through one of those pale beams, a brief flicker of gold, and it's suddenly difficult to keep his emotions from playing out on his face.

It's gone before he can decide if it was really there at all or if it was just his imagination.

The rest of the day, what little's left of it, and through much of the night, Daryl thinks about what he'd seen earlier in the woods. Until then, he'd been entertaining many dark thoughts. About revenge and retribution. About death and sacrifice. About violent means to violent ends. And he knows that he might've just been hallucinating, conjuring up the image of her out of thin air. After his conversation with Maggie, it'd been hard to get thoughts of the younger Greene girl out of his head. But whether the vision really had been just in his head or whether she'd actually been there, it doesn't matter. It's turned any half-cocked plan he'd been making directly on its ugly head.

_Beth_.

Even when that damn girl's gone, she's still in his head, taking up residence and crowding out the dark.

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End file.
